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Step by Step/Issue 48
This is Issue #48 of ''Step by Step''. This is the sixth issue of Volume Eight. Be-All and End-All Turn on the lights. Play that dead band song again. New morning. A low winter sun had risen over the cloudless sky above the town. A dead band trumpeted military music in the distance, deep within the town. Rockefeller had long loathed such parades, for parades reminded him of his childhood, and his childhood reminded him of things which tremble the bones of men, horrifying and maddening. A new feeling of glee filled his gullet and he accepted the parade in his honor, for today was a day in which the farm boys bowed to the corn, in which the horse rider bowed to the stallion, and the cowboy bowed to the bull. Rockefeller, dressed in a military green jacket, with his belly swollen out, stood with hands locked behind his back. Give him some more. Red Smith was standing outside of the town hall, a great building with style from the years of the top-hat gentlemen, on a stage platform with a wooden podium at the ready. "Do you want it here, boss?" That shit-grinner soldier Blaine had said. The town hall was witness to the last decade of Red holding the town of Smith's Ferry by the horns and whipping it into good shape. Even though his father before him had been a devil for the word politician, his father before him had been the ringleader of the town. Had renewed the town to its original potential. The mayor before grandfather Smith had been a corrupt, potbelly liar with the eyes of a wolf and the voice of a chicken thief. Had ran the town into the ground. Poor families poorer and the rich families fleeing for the hills. Red took a breath. A new breath of fresh air. The stage platform outside the town hall was large and flat. Red Smith grinned now, well, smiled darkly, at the thought of how well it resembled a gallows scaffold. In front of the town hall laid an outstretch of road and people standing in crowds of hundreds. He hadn't the closest idea to how many people had adhered to his morning public announcement, but he knew two things—the townspeople loved him joyfully and he didn't know their names. The people were singing him praise down below, for he had eradicated the criminals and bandits who had wandered into the town yesterday, posing as survivors from the city—give me a break, the townspeople had said. They sung him praise and blessed his name in their rosy voices, for he had retaken the town from the bloodthirsty Guard when the gates of hell had broken open some weeks ago, or a month ago, whatever. Red didn't mind the time. Time wasn't vital any longer. The people sung him praise, for he would maintain the walls up and their bellies fed. Red Smith smiled deeper. A tall man stood at his right side. "You know what they want," his nephew said. "They want to hear your voice." "My voice." "They want your words in their ears." "My words." "Your charisma in their hearts." "My charisma." "You're a great man," Cleon said. "A great uncle." Red Smith nodded in agreement and the crowds of townspeople cried for his name as a chorus group performed aggressively in front of the stage platform. A parade. For him. "We want Rockefeller!" The crowds of people faced him—he had them where he wanted. Red was no fool. Knew how to conjure up an audience like he knew how to rile up his lovers. "We want Rockfeller!" His family held in its blood the art of persuasion, the art which made rulers control the hearts of their subjects. A king could only conquer so much. A smart ruler knew how to conquer that which was beyond land and booty. People's hearts and minds. "We want Rockefeller!" "The people of Smith's Ferry have spoken," Cleon whispered to his uncle. "Are you ready, how's your heart?" "Doing real fine." "Your morning cigar?" Red gave a snort of laughter and patted his breastpocket. "Made sure to leave enough for lunch," he said, a sensation of pride in his gullet. "I'll have this crowd for breakfast." "I should start smoking cigars." "You're crazy." "You afraid I'll grow up to become you?" Cleon said, and he blushed suddenly at the face, realizing his insult in the heat of the moment. "I'm healthy and fit for what I am," Red said, noticing his nephew's rosy complexion, a shameful sight. "You're grandfather and his father lived their lives with smoke in their lungs and tobacco behind their cheeks. So did I." "You've got a weak heart," said Cleon. "And you've become a weak ass." "But never a weak spirit," the uncle replied. "This crowd loves me." "I should start smoking, then." Cleon smiled forward at the crowd. The townspeople were here for his uncle, not him. But they would glance at him, the heir of the fortune, for sure. "And make the crowd love me, too." Red Smith gave his nephew a mean, nasty look. Cleon was still blushing and gulped. Blinked. The ugly look had disappeared as if it had never happened. Red looked at him with a welcoming pair of eyes. "I'm hoping to see the bandits soon, real soon—I'll need your expertise, son." Cleon gulped. "I'll be there." "You're a soldier. A natural-born soldier." Leader, a thought in Cleon's head. A natural-born leader. "Thanks. And thank you for restoring order." Red smiled with hilarious intensity. The chorus music began to die down. "And for capturing—" "That was us." Cleon looked bewildered. "That was all us." "What?" "Good people!" Red had begun to shout. "Good people! That was us, last night. Us!" Cleon failed to notice that his uncle wasn't talking to him, well, anymore. His uncle had begun to walk towards the podium to address the crowd. He was speaking to the crowd, unifying them. The crowd was frantic and erratic, and he was sure that he saw a lady in the front row crying out of happiness. The crowd had come to be showered with happy lies. To be told that the threat was no more. The diseas was no match for their man, Rockefeller. He who had now twice saved them from the invaders, the armymen, the vandals. To be told that a police officer, one of the new arrivals, had attacked the town with the intent of killing civilians. Killing sons and daughters. Rockefeller knew it was a half truth, but did it matter? Did it matter when you were at your prime? Would it matter in the future when they would carry him in a king's carrier seat, out of joy and pride? Cleon shuddered with an unknown fright. Unsure of where'd it'd come from. What did his uncle ever do? Cower in his office. Cleon, the band. What did they do? Eradicate the threat. His uncle was too strong. Too powerful. Would eventually get swallowed by himself or the crowd. Cleon didn't know the exact number of people in the crowds. The entire town. Maybe. But he was sure of three things. He hadn't eaten breakfast in order to be first to the parade celebration and speech. Was hungry. Another thing—this town would last. And his uncle would not. ---- "The crowd loves you." "Jealous much," said Gary to his brother Bram. The two men stood in the assembly room of the town hall with a group of six other men. Two were Cleon and the mayor. The third was the town sheriff, Drake. The two other men resembled the uncle and nephew, except that they were brothers. The older brother was balding in the front with the leftover hair combed back. The younger brother had a pointed nose and an underdeveloped beard. The last man, clean-shaven and wearing military green fatigues, was of no blood relation and he hovered in the room like an unwanted phantom. A guard was posted to the outside of the room. Door open. The councilman's table was where Red sat with his nephew to his right and with nobody else. On the right side of the room stood Bram with the two other brothers. Gary stood with his overweight self in front of the table with the clean-shaved man. "He's a natural," Cleon said. "And you're a natural at bashing in skulls, bro." Cleon laughed. Gary was at least a dozen years older than him. "Thanks, bro." "You told that punk what he needed to hear," Gary said. "That he deserved what he got." Bram smiled, teeth wide. "A punk's punishment." "Yeah, bro." "Deserved his lot," said Bram. "Who was he to come crash this party?" "Yeah, bro." "After all we've done—throwing out those soldiers and reclaiming our town!" Bram was fighting the swelling passion in his voice. Bram eyed the mayor fiercely, enough to burn flesh. "Defending our people from this disaster!" "Yeah, bro." Red Smith smiled. And laughed. "Bram, you're right and I agree with you all the way, with all my heart." "Yet," said Bram. "You called for this meeting while those assholes keep breathing our air. After what they've done. Isn't fair." "Yeah, bro," Gary said. "After what they've brought here. Distress and chaos." "Ain't no chaos," Bram began. "There are no more threats in Smith's Ferry." "Rockefeller's too smart for me." "How so?" Gary pointed to the mayor. "That man has twice the brain and twice the heart. Got into that psycho's mind and got him to take out Don, that sonofabitch liar." The two brothers at Bram's side both nodded. Bram shot a questioning glance at Red and mouthed what? "But a civilian died," said the clean-shaved man. "We had a madman running through the town with a loaded gun." Red's ears perked up and he listened. "Wasn't no civilian," Cleon said. "Patrick, did you not hear the speech?" "He did," said Red. "And my words went in one ear, out the other." Patrick made a scoffing noise. "Bandits. I don't know how the crowd can believe that. How they can digest the thought of how close they were to a massacre last night." "Why you being so stubborn?" The sheriff Drake asked. "I'm not." "You are." "I am not." Red Smith was watching this young, clean-shaven kid. He was no older than his nephew, his heir. No bolder or brasher. Thought he looked like a stuck-up private schooler. He had known some in his days of visiting the city. But this kid wore a stone look on his face and was wearing clothes different from the rest of the pack. The pack. This was a meeting of an inner circle, his inner circle with him as the ringleader. "What is your title, Patrick?" "Private." "Your worth to me?" "Very." "Gentlemen!" Red shouted and rose from his seat at the table. "Don't be mistaken. This is no stubborn person. Private Hughes might very well be the brightest, smartest of us, and certainly, he's my man." Cleon watched this with great interest. An inner circle. He thought of his purpose here. His role. The role of nephew. Looked to his uncle. The role of ringleader. Looked at Drake and saw an angry look on his face. Always looked angry. Was happy to be angry. The role of the ringleader's sheriff, his muscle. Looked at Bram and Gary, the two Beekman brothers. The role of dumb and dumber. Looked at the two silent brothers and noticed that they too watched the situation with great interest. He went red at the face. Were they questioning his worth as well? The brother with the balding hairline was looking at the situation and yawning. Cleon knew him from his role in overthrowing the military from the town. Was a mighty fighter. Old hickory. The brother with the young, scrawly beard was a friend of Cleon's. Not a good friend, not a bad one. Had known him from school and his friendship with his uncle. Cleon bit his tongue. Saw the younger brother staring at him. How long had he been watching him? Cleon blinked. Looked back at the younger brother. He was watching the situation and yawning. Cleon was trying to remember what his role had been, and knew it had something to do with the expelling of the military. He smiled. Remembered a saying that said that two apples can land at different distance when they fall, but that they both fall from the same tree. Dumb saying. Stupid. "My poet, my treasure, my jewel," Red continued in a sing-song voice. Cleon couldn't tell if it was an act or not. "People, good people—Patrick is one of us. One of us. Has been for a week or two, I believe." Patrick and him locked eyes. Red smiled with a look as if he had the soldier's fate in his hands. "Found my heart, didn't you, son?" "Yes." "You're smart." Red said. "And you know why I had to lie to those good people out there." Patrick nodded slightly and adjusted his belt buckle. "Are those people outside good, son?" Patrick gave a slight nod. "Would you be sad if anything happened to those good people?" Another nod. "The military, the soldiers came here on the cold day at the ass-crack of dawn—''friends of yours''—and hurt my good people. Stole and pillaged, worse than those diseased things. You saw how bad they were, and how we needed your help. That's why you helped us get rid of them, the wolves in sheeps' clothing." "And brought them back," Bram said. "I sent him to find remnants," said Red. "Now we have them jailed." "He brought us our former associates." Cleon chuckled. "What's left of them." Patrick smiled. "All four. Was the cherry on top." Red Smith looked on with growing agitation bubbling under his surface, a politician's false pair of welcoming eyes and smiling teeth. Cleon was used to the face. Knew well that those eyes were like knives and the teeth might as well have been barbed wire. "I did good for you people," said Patrick. "I'm only pointing out the obvious. We can't continue taking risks like last night if we want to survive. Survive. That means survive long enough—" "To see the cause be fulfilled." "Yes." Patrick said smiling, and Cleon saw his eyes light up with another thought before he pressed on. "I want the cause to be fulfilled. I want these innocent people to live. I want to live. All of us want to see the cause fulfilled." Red transitioned a look to the others and gave a good grin, evil in its nature. He especially saw Bram watching him. A true follower. "Patrick, hand me my namesake." "What would that be?" Red looked to the corner of the assembly room, where a flag of red, white, and blue stood firm, and above it was an holy weapon on the wall. When Patrick saw it, Red noticed a paleness of fright come upon the boy. Patrick gulped down the apparant fear and broke from the trance, walking over to the wall and removing the unholy weapon, a farming sickle with a red hilt. He came back and set it on Red's desk. Red licked his lips, placing a hand on the hilt of the sickle. "I had an idea about our survival." "Do tell." "We'll have enough time for my plan." Red dropped his smile and sat back down behind the table. "It involves the prisoners." "The criminals and bandits," Patrick said, and Red shot him a look. A look of first anger, but then a look of compassion. "We'll put them to good use." "Good use," said Bram and Gary. "We'll show them how the new order is." "The new order," said Bram, Gary, and then Patrick. The others watched intently. Red resumed his smile. "Come closer," he said. "Gather and listen..." ----"That was some weird stuff," Cleon said, referring to the meeting with his uncle. "If you can call it that," said Lucas, the youngest of the two brothers who had been in the meeting. His voice was soft and slow, with a mild southern accent. "And I loved every second." The two young men stood outside in the harsh winter cold at the street corner of the town's police station. The men of the Band had gone inside to pick up the prisoners. Several of them were inside getting them ready. A delivery truck sat in the parking lot nearby. Out of the corner of his eye, Cleon saw a group of kids playing on the sidewalk by the alley between the station and the nearby book store. One of the three boys had his hands up with a horrified look. The second boy was aiming a stick at the other. Made the noise of a gunshot. Boom. The first boy fell down playing dead and the third boy burst out laughing. A chill ran down his heart. Cleon watched—he wondered how the kids had heard about the murder. Wondered if they'd seen it. Lucky little bastards. The birds gently flew over the town. The wind blew steadily and the cold trembled down Cleon's spine. There were sparse moments of excitement in the town's public square as townspeople continued celebrating their victory, as declared by the mayor, that is was they who eradicated the threat of the criminals and bandits. Rockefeller had told them so. A man across the street was in Cleon's sight. He was draping a storefront with a white banner with red letters. Cleon squinted his eyes. Looked closer. Closer. Couldn't see what the banner said. "Last night, what'd you think?" "Good stuff." "A five out of five?" Lucas grinned. "Ten out of ten." "Same thing." "Same difference," said Lucas, giggling into a burst a laughter. "How does Rockefeller say it?" "What do you mean?" "For the cause." "Oh, that." "Fulfill the cause." Cleon giggled. "You know it's not really an act, yeah?" "Oh, trust me. I know it ain't." "He and the others actually believe in it." "Oh, scary. You should hear what Timmy says about it behind their backs." "Do tell." "It's all voodoo, he says." "You lying?" "I ain't lying," said Lucas, in his farmer's cornbread accent. Cleon crossed his arms. "Ever since that day, y'know, that day, my uncle has gotten more and more different. Maybe for the worse." "Maybe for the better." Lucas stretched his back. "You see how these people adore his ass. Even more now with this disease going about the place." "How 'bout you?" "Me?" Lucas sucked his teeth. "You know me and my uncle—we voted his three hundred pounds into that town hall every single time his name was on the ballot." Cleon raised a brow and uncrossed his arms. He liked Lucas because he was a straight-talker, but even Cleon knew how loose-lipped he was. The kid was passing for a man with his attempted beard, but he was barely an inch above twenty years. Was the type to puff his chest out in the presence of stronger men. He reminded Cleon of himself, for both had brown hair, yet Lucas kept his in a man's ponytail, much like a homeless veteran. Homeless Rambo, thought Cleon, but he knew full well that Lucas was no more patriotic than a goat's dry nipple. He was in it for the joy and monies. Cleon, rather, in spite of his laughs and jokes, held the cause strongly in his heart. As his grandfather had seeded, and his father had sought to uproot, and his uncle had fertilized, the cause would usher in the new order. A new order, one to out the old order. A new order. Lucas would help usher it in, but he would not survive. This was the bringer of dawn's rapture, out with the bad and wasted, in with the good and refreshed. Cleon glanced at the kids playing and scowled at them. "You remember our childhood?" "Is all a blur, heck. You know what I don't remember, either?" "Do tell." "Don't remember eating this morning. Am starving. Am thirsty. And I ain't much the waiting type." Lucas rubbed his belly with burning emphasis and looked off towards the police station. "They's taking their time, all right. I oughta clock them up-side the heads." "You're the complaining type, whiner." "And you's the bitch type, pretty boy." "You see that banner over there?" "On the storefront yonder?" "That one. What's it say?" Lucas scoffed and swore a ripe one. "Another sucker born every day." "What's it say?" "Same stuff as when your unc' gave them Army soldiers an ass-whupping." Lucas smiled with disdain for the storefront owner and Cleon shot him an impatient look. "Says your uncle is king." "Really?" "Really?" Lucas said mockingly. "You know, for a pretty boy, you ain't one ounce of common sense. Ain't you see, man, that your uncle is their king. Is their savior. Very might well be, heck, their god?" Lucas saw him eyeballing, staring deeply at the banner. For a moment, there was a look of numbness in Cleon's eyes and pale fright in his jowls. "Ain't you see? The dead walk, come out from their graves, and the people panic. Simple, is all. People needed a leader, is all. Found one in your uncle." Cleon eyed him good. If anyone else had overheard, Lucas would be called out for treason. That as much was true. But Lucas's family had good standing in the town. And, as fate had it, Lucas confided in his friend. Why else would he be so openly questioning the bringer of dawn? "Forget the bullshit about the cause and that God-forsaken mission of his," Lucas continued. "Forget that for one minute, just one second. The people are hooked onto Rockefeller like a sonofabitch fish on a goddam fisherman's hook. Will be, for now. Even I see that, and I ain't much a book-worm." "My uncle is king." "Rockefeller is king." "Rockefeller is king." "Say that five times fast and wipe your ass," Lucas laughed and slapped his knee. "The human heart's a mysterious thang. Say, maybe it's the idea of rebellion. Maybe it's the sense of revolution, heck, of a fierce leader. Could be his wit of the word, as my grandmama'd say. Loyalty and allegiance are cheap and inexpensive, but love can't be bought, savvy?" Cleon nodded. Two weeks ago, his uncle had preached long to the townspeople's hearts about taking back their own. That the military barging into their town was the final straw. The last lick of the cow's utter. Cleon remembered now that long day of bloodshed, of peasants rising up, of the town being taken back from the invaders, of the gagged and the raped seizing military soldiers and captains by the throats, where knives had cut and slashed. Maybe it was the idea of putting a mad man in charge of fate. A man, Cleon thought, whose cause was born out of the last breaths of a devil-worshiper. The bringer of dawn, the devil had cried to Red Smith that day of the cult's awakening, the bringer of dawn. Behind them now, there was shouting inside the police station. In the streets, a mass of dozens of townspeople had begun to steadily form. "It could be very well that with every self-righteous lie he tells the townspeople that, with every goddam lie, that he gets their love. Earns their love, feel me? And you know, as do I, that they's love for your uncle grows by the day. Grows stronger and stronger as he becomes darker and darker." "You're not the only one to think that way," said Cleon. "The crowd'll consume him?" "He'll become the crowd." Lucas smiled once more with disdain and spat in his hand, using the spit to wet his ponytail. "Rockefeller means something. To the people, Rockefeller means something higher. It means something better—" The sound of doors opening behind them. It was the men of the Band with the prisoners. "—Rockefeller means king." Cleon nodded, to Lucas seemingly in agreement, but it was a nodding of concern. Lucas didn't see it, and perhaps nobody else would have, but as Lucas walked off to get the prisoners loaded into the delivery truck, Cleon walked over to the banner on the storefront. He made sure the owner of the banner had left. Then Cleon tore it down. ---- Told himself he wasn't going to cry. Told himself he wasn't going to grovel. Told himself he wasn't going to pray, to God nor his angels. A deep calm had flushed over him. Hadn't slept or batted an eye the whole night. An angry pain echoed throughout his body. Nobody was there to help him. Nobody ever helped those who weren't worth saving. Ugly and broken, wounded and bloodied. Lyle had awoken from the blows to the head inside the station, in a cold and damp room. Tumors of black stained his vision. He saw figures in the room with him and heard the chatter of small voices, of insects. Told himself he wasn't afraid. But he was afraid. Told himself he wasn't a coward. But he was a stupid fool. He liked the calm. Liked the peace. Didn't have to do much. Didn't move much. Was pointless. He didn't have to see to know that he was chained. Had him chained like a dog. Knew he wasn't a dog. Lyle was more a gazelle in its dying, spasming and giving its last breaths. Thirst burned at his throat and hunger ripped at his belly. But he was safe. There were no dead freaks. It'd been a nightmare. This was reality. He was safe in jail. A familiar, delightful memory. The familiar in life was calming. Thought he smelled something. The smell of food. Food in the air. He opened his eyes. Licked his lips. Saw a flashlight beaming into the room. He'd been in the room's darkness for a couple hours. He was weak. Didn't bother to move. Why bother moving if you're dead? He was thinking that when he heard voices, clearer now. "Food, food." "Give me it." "I need it more than them." "No, he's lying. Gimme here." "Shut up." "I deserve it. I'm starving." "Give it to the girls," said a different voice, and where had Lyle heard it before? Lyle didn't care now. Didn't care much about the voice. Or the others. Knew he was in deep with the reaper. Could feel his soul in the dead man's grasp. A string of pain burned now in his abdomen. It was as if a match had been lit, the fire now devouring his insides. Where he'd been shot. It was coming back. He was awake. Was alive. Lyle realized he was being eaten alive. The sorry bastards had thrown him to the dead freaks. To the crazies. The peace had been bliss as hands ripped into his intestines. The voices continued around him. The hungry voices that wished for food, for his flesh, were the crazies. The diseased freaks. They had begun to devour him, and he would let them. Hoped they choked on his guts. He knew that much, that he had guts. The guts to be a total fool. Get used like a rag and thrown in the trash. "Gimme the leg, I want the leg." "You'll get nothing, the chicken legs are for the girls." "Says who?" "Says me, your sergeant." "Well," said the hungry voice. "You ain't much my boss now, huh?" "He's right about that one," said another hungry voice. "I'm in pain, so's I should be eating that protein." Lyle heard grumbling growls. Why were they arguing over his flesh? "Give it to the girls." "Choke on it," Lyle muttered weakly. "You choke on that shit, you idiots." "Holy cow and Saint Mary." "He's alive." "I thought he was dead." "Or dying." "Midnight's king," said a familiar voice. Too familiar—sounded like a familiar idiot named Derek. Had the brain of a punk and the mouth of a plumber's ash tray. Remembered him from before. The sorry bastards had thrown him to the diseased monsters, as well. But now he was undead. Diseased. Face covered in rot and blisters. Eating him alive. "You choke on that, Derek." "I'd hoped he was dead." "Can't see that good, but I bet you're uglier than 'fore." "Still am." "Why are you eating me, for?" "He's delirious," said a hungry voice. "What'd I do for this?" Lyle began to panic, talking fast, talking without thought. A hand grabbed his face. Lyle screamed and the terror in his gullet was horrible. "He's scaring my daughter." "Shut him up! Shut him up!" Lyle was seeing stars. He was lost in a constellation of pain and worry, fright over this fate, being eaten alive. A hand on his face. The dirty nails would tear into his face. Into his eyes. Rip them out. Before he could fight back, a wetness slapped his face and jolted him to life. He thought he saw a face. "You smell worse now than ever," Nolan said, but the voice wasn't hungry. Was weak. "Like a bitch," Lyle said, and realized that Nolan was washing his feverishly hot face with a wet cloth that he dabbed every now and then in a little bowl of water. "Ya doing good?" "Am good. Sore." "You ain't happy to be alive?" "Happy to be awake." "You've run a bad fever. Been here since you got shackled." "They were trying to eat me." "Nonsense, man. Nonsense." Nolan said and pointed to the other side of the room. It was a jail cell, long and rectangular. The front of the room was separated with the iron bars on the left half and concrete wall on the right which continued around the room. Nolan pointed to a group of people swarming the iron bars, and Lyle could barely see, but he counted six heads. On that half stood Malcolm, the sergeant, with Hector, Gordan, Amanda, and two others, a father and his daughter. Some refugees from the burned high school. It was obvious to Lyle then, and would be for a long time, that the room was divided into two halves. Three chains connected to the right side and the other six connected to the left wall. The criminals were divided from the bandits. Beams of light from flashlights darted around. Another hand grabbed his arm and dug fingers into his armpit for a grip. Derek's hand. "I'll make him stand on two feet." "He's weak." "He's a weakling, is all." Derek scoffed and gave a thrust upward with Lyle's shoulder, throwing him against the wall for support. "A weakling." "You oughta let me die in peace," Lyle said and protested, and Nolan gave him a look of worry. Jesus. Lyle's face was caked with blood and sweat, eyes were red-rimmed with ache and hurt. The man was an ugly sight. "I won't let you die," said Nolan. "Let me go." "And let you die, right?" "Yes." "No." Lyle's head suddenly jerked back and he slurred his words of protest. It took him a moment to realize that Nolan had slapped him. Slapped him hard. "You hit me." "I had to." Nolan dabbed his forehead with the wet cloth. "You're not in your right senses." "He hit your dumb ass," said Derek. Nolan held him tight by the shoulders. Lyle was stumbling and rocking back and forth, ready to fall. Nolan stared, looking for a light of reason in his friend's eyes. As Nolan dabbed Lyle's forehead with the wet cloth, he noticed a radiating warmth from his friend's face. He was burning up. Lyle was breathing in a quivering panic, short and painful gasps for air. "It's all my fault, can't you see?" "Yeah, they messed you up good." Lyle stared back, face pale with exhaustion and red with fever. Had a wild look in the eyes. Nolan pursed his lips. "Didn't they?" Lyle nodded painfully. It was gut-wrenching for Nolan to see his friend in such a bad shape. He felt tears stinging in his eyes, hoped that they weren't visible in the dark. Wouldn't cry for no second. He was a big man, right, pa? "We'll get out of here," said Nolan. Derek gave a mocking chuckle. "We're already dead, fool." "Not yet." "They're gonna take us and line us up." "No, they aren't." "Line us up, and then shoot us." "Shut up!" It was the daughter screaming. Her father was watching, pale and frightened, unsure of himself and the situation. "Hey, you keep that girl in her place, eh?" "You shut your trap, punk." "Asshole." The daughter whined. "Dad, don't let him talk no more." "I'll say what I want." Derek crossed his arms and eyed her from across the room. "Might as well," he reasoned. "Because, in a little while, they'll come back." "Don't." "And s''hoot us''." "You're not helping at all," said Malcolm, the tall sergeant who stood among the others. Derek eyeballed him with a certain hatred. "It was all a great plan, is obvious. Take us here to jail us, and for what? To get executed without no fairness, was that the plan?" "I have no more knowledge of the situation than you." "Ooooh." Derek laughed and did a little dance with his hands, mocking the sergeant. "Big man ain't got a plan, is that right?" "We're not going to die. Nothing'll happen." "What is it then? Why are we here?" "It's all a big, fat misunderstanding." Derek burst out with laughter and the daughter continued crying. Beside Derek on the other side of the room stood Nolan, drowsy with hangover from a terrible, adrenaline-fueled chase the night before. He had kept silent for a long time. For a long time, the jail cell had been a spitting fest between Derek and the ones on the opposite side of the cell. Derek had been talkative and insulting since being locked in the room. Nolan told himself it was him picking fights to kill the boredom, but he knew better than to excuse Derek's civility. It was Derek's nature. Lyle started to get restless in Nolan's grip, so his fingers got tighter and tighter around his friend's shoulders. "They gonna kill us," Lyle whined. "We're dead, he's right, we're dead." "Wrong, man. The guards bought us food just now." "Chicken legs," Derek said with a snort of laughter. "I don't want to be here," Lyle pleaded. "Get me out!" "Calm down, man." "Get me out! Get me out!" With the breathing of a mad boar, Lyle broke free from Nolan's grip running, without any care, shoving past Derek and running towards the iron bars. The crowd of six who had formed around the food dispersed like a cloud of bees. Lyle lunged forward, and with an ugly snap, landed on his chest as the chain yanked on his foot. Lyle swore and rolled over on his back. "Get that chain off me, now!" It wasn't a chain. A long rope had been tied to his ankle. "He's gone mad," somebody said, and Lyle recognized it was Hector. "Let him be," Malcolm said. "Don't act like we didn't act that way at first." "You don't order me to do shit." "Hector, got an attitude with me?" "Have been ever since the school fire." Hector pointed madly at Malcolm. "It's your fault we're here, in some mad man's death chamber." "You've gone blind." "You're fault we lost so many good people." "You lie." "You're fault we lost Carter." "Shut up with that." "A word, sergeant?" Malcolm turned to see Gordon, one of the soldiers from his platoon. Had never been on good or bad terms with him. He needed Gordon's good word. Thought he'd support his sergeant at a time when Malcolm was a general without his troops. "Yes, speak." "I want you to hear it from my mouth." "Go on." "I'm starving. We're all hungry, so hungry." "So am I." "And it's your fault, sergeant." Malcolm gasped. "I didn't know she was with them." "You were the one who took us to that diner, you were the one who trusted that lady, and now we're in deep 'cause of it!" Gordon continued, a growing sorrow in his voice. "Now I'll never see my family again." Hector managed to smile at Malcolm. "Why are you smiling?" "You're fault!" Gordon shouted. "You're fault they took that kid Eugene." Malcolm gulped and balled his fists. "And Joseph!" "I should punch you." "Do it then," Gordon said. "I'll make you eat shit, sergeant," Hector, the officer, added. Malcolm stared him down. "You wouldn't dare." "You've lost the respect of my badge." "I don't need respect from the likes of you, such a disgusting man." "I'll strangle you." "And I thought I was bad," Derek said, laughing. But it wasn't funny to Nolan, and Lyle was too delirious to comprehend the situation. Seeking guidance, Nolan glanced around the room and saw a sympathetic scene of anguish, wherein hope was absent and anger filled the void. Jacob, the father, was holding his daughter Kerry to his side. On the floor laid wounded and sickly his friend Lyle, ill with a bullet to the abdomen. On one side of the room, Hector and Gordon were scolding the daylights out of Malcolm, a dishonored sergeant. In despair, Nolan locked eyes with a officer under Hector's wing, the female cop. Had forgotten her name. What was it, and did it even matter? Ten minutes before, Nolan had heard music and cheers outside the police station. He had assumed that the end was near. He was desperate. Amanda saw him walking over to her and held her ground. "Stay back," she said. Nolan paused, looking confused. "What?" "You stay back." "Don't let him come close," said Derek. "He bites." "So do you." "Don't pay attention to them, sweetie." "I won't," said Amanda, watching Nolan with fear as he was giving her a look of astonishment. "A couple of no-good thugs," said Hector, spatting on the ground. He started to fish through his the rags of a police uniform for a box of cigarettes. "They're as bad as you, Malcolm." "Is that right?" "You bet, sir." Hector flew back as a great fist slammed into his face. A boy caught off guard, he landed and sprawled onto the floor, the box of cigarettes flying into the air. Nolan, watching from afar, noticed Lyle's eyes light up with euphoria as the feverish, confused man attempted to scramble onto his feet. "My cigarettes, my cigarettes!" Nolan looked around. Saw everyone looking to Malcolm. Gordon stood straight with his blood boiling. "He deserved it," the sergeant said. "And you deserve something too," said Gordon, taking two steps towards Malcolm before throwing two quick jabs, hitting him once in the stomach, making the sergeant double over in pain. Then, recovering from the attack, Malcolm grabbed the soldier by the back of the hair and shoved him to the floor, falling with him. In the madness, Hector had tried to stand up by grabbing hold of Lyle's shoulder, but then both fell onto Gordon and Malcolm, forming a dog pit. The four men swore and punched at one other. Sweat dribbling down his face, Nolan looked to Amanda with terror in his eyes. "What can I do?" "Do what?" "Help." "Let them be, oh God, just let them be," sobbed Amanda, covering her ears, trying to blot out the the noise. "What were they saying about that kid and the boy soldier?" "Who, Eugene and Joseph?" Nolan quickly nodded. "It doesn't matter anymore." Nolan grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her to life. "Yes, it does." Amanda started to choke on her sobs. Nolan noticed tears in her eyes and her face was wet. "Tell me!" "They took them, oh God, they probably took them and killed, just like they're going to do to us!" Before Nolan could do more, he heard the marching of boots, and then a flashlight beam hit him in the face, illuminating his pale face and shadow of facial hair, a deer caught in the headlights. He saw a lantern glowing in the pathway between the jail cells. Saw about a dozen men standing armed with rifles outside their jail cell, and one had begun to unlock the door. They were dressed in flannel clothes and one had a baton at his waist. They looked like demons in the darkness under the lantern's glow, figments of a sweaty nightmare. The door to the cell opened. The soldiers marched into the room. One of them made for Amanda, but instead Nolan attempted to strike him in the face with a closed fist. The soldier lifted his rifle, turned it sideways, and broke it over Nolan's head with the butt. "Get off him, gaywad," Derek barked, but then three soldiers came from behind him and they struck him with their rifle butts. "My cigarettes," Lyle screamed, crawling along the floor with the box of Marlboro in his hands. He had stuck the box of cigarettes into his shoe, and by then, the others had been taken down by the invading guards. With a smile, and a fever growing, Lyle flattened himself against the floor with his back, face hot and wet with sweat of fever and adrenaline. Lyle could tell that the fever was melting his brain, melting his insides. What was real? Had the zombos been real, or was it a bad, very bad nightmare? Multiple boots stepped over him. He was a dead cockroach on the floor. Then, a soldier paused to look over him, the one with the lantern held high. "Hey, bitch." "I know you?" "I know you, bitch." "Hey, watch that lip, now." "Oh, I will." "You a hallucination, man?" "You'll like where you're headed." "Heaven, heaven, heaven." "No," the soldier replied. "Hell, hell, hell." A boot then stomped on Lyle's face, and darkness came upon him. ----Something had happened. Something bad was going on. Everybody was gone, only he was left. A morning pain ached his body, filled with poor sleep, riddled with bruises and cracked skin. A hot darkness pressed against his face, and he felt with his hands a leathery sack upon his face. He was blinded by a burlap sack. He would try to move. Moved right it sent burned his spine. Moved left and it sent a pain in his balls. "I'm in hell," Lyle muttered, voice dry with ache, teeth gritting with hoarseness. "The man's come for me, now." "Ain't no man coming for your ass." "Who said that?" "Don't remember my voice, Jacky?" "Great," said Lyle, feeling his face under the sack. "I'm in hell with the likes of you." "I can't wait." "To see fate?" "To see your face when they shoot a bullet through that brainless head of yours." "That where we headed?" "To the execution square." "How long's it been?" "Since we got swamped?" "Yeah." "A half-hour." Lyle fell silent and began to mumble words. He remained silent, thinking, and felt his feet bound by rope. "You also got a sack on you?" "Yeah, and a fat dick." "I'm serious." "Yeah, I can't see for none." "Where are we?" "Back of a delivery truck." "Are we alone here, me and you?" "You scared or something?" "Nah, kid. Is we alone?" "Yeah." "I didn't know about any of this, yeah?" "Yeah." "That Rockefeller was going to put one foot in, one foot out, backstab us." "He backstabbed you, not me." Derek laughed, like a little weasel. "Got your ass beat, good, yeah, my ass too, I suppose." "We'll go out together." "He wasn't with you, none?" "Who?" "Dennis." "Yeah, I know." "He made it out." A moment of silence. Lyle licked his lips, gulped, and noticed that they were inside the storage compartment of the delivery truck. Wasn't a small one. Big enough for his voice to echo. "Yeah, he made it out." "Boy's alive out there. He'll find help, bring us help." "No he won't, you idiot." "What you trying to say, faggot?" "I's mean what I said. You really expect that boy to come back with the police? "The police!" Derek burst with hilarious laughter. "I mean help as in the crew, bitch. My boys from the ghetto'll come, come and find me." Lyle shook his head from side-to-side. The world was filled with the walking undead and the kid thought he was going to get a happy ending. "You think, Jacky? "Yeah, maybe they will." "Your boy, Rockefeller. I'll beat his cracker ass into crumbs." Derek swore. "You were out cold when they got us in here, this truck. And you know what I saw?" "What'd you see, thug?" "Saw crowds of people cheering that man on." "Where?" "The streets. On the streets." "When?" "I saw them crowds surround your boy, throwing red flowers at him. Then a lady raced out the damn crowd and gave him a kiss on the cheek." "He can go to hell." "You can, Jacko, you can. We're collateral damage, isn't we?" "You know I'm sorry, not sorry." "Boy, you better be sorry for killing me." "You think I knew the tables were going to turn like this? That when I needed him most, for the shit I did for him, that he was going to kick me while I was down?" "Yeah." "The man's a thief. A dirty thief, and he can eat a fat sack." "A fat dick." "You know good and well what we gonna do, yeah?" "Go to sleep, wait for your boy." "Idiot," said Lyle. "We'll get these sacks off us, and we start swinging. Hit the nearest guy in the jaw, and bolt." "You're crazy." "You think you know me, but you ain't. Kid, I got connections." "Like who?" Little Jack Wallace, Lyle wanted to say. But he knew his words were useless. He had nobody except a thorn in his side, Derek. Just then, the delivery truck came to a stop. A door creaked open outside. The sound of hog boots on road and dirt. Lyle wrestled quickly with the burlap sack, but it was tied around his bloody neck. "You ready to take 'em out?" "Yeah, sure." "I mean it." "You never told me 'bout your story here." "Like you'd want to know." "I do," spoke Derek. "I want to know why there's a pistol aimed at you wherever you go. We left that boy of yours at the station the night 'fore today, and he wound up dead. You know who got him?" "Wayne's gone?" "Danger follows your scent, Jacky." "Are you sure?" "I'm sure as blue they got him, cuz, I heard them folks talking about that psycho soldier, how he did him in. You know who's fault it really was?" "Ours." "Yours, Jacky. You didn't put the gun in his hand, but you did somethin' to that psycho to provoke his ass. Poked that bear with your ego, think you got the biggest dick of them all, Jacky. That's you." "You were there too." "But I ain't had the opportunity to save him." "You ain't know shit either, assfunk." Lyle was swelling with a rising animosity in his voice. "All Wayne did was hold the door open for us when it came to Big Earl. He was a cheap shot. Glad he died, one less loose end." "Well, maybe you do deserve to be in this hell, then." "As long as I die after you." "You hate me, Jacky?" "Yeah, I do. But I need you like you need me, two peas in a pod." "What about the rest, them people who brought us here?" "I only care for brothers," said Lyle. "Those who shake well a hand when offered, them who remember who would take a bullet for you. People who know I care about them." "I shoot you, would that boy of yours Nolan take it?" Lyle fell silent now. "I'd take it for him," he muttered. "What about this town, that cracker ass Rockefeller?" "I was his gun, and he was my money. Murder-for-hire, me and Nolan. But that ain't matter now." "It matters 'cause we gon' perish, Jacky." "Stop with that, fool, and get ready to pounce." "How many you did in for him?" "More than a couple." "Why, money?" "Don't matter, thug. You ain't need to know. What's important is that you ready yourself, yeah?" "Yeah." Another door opened up with a loud creak and a brilliant light shone though the sack covering his face, sunlight burning at high noon. Lyle pressed together his fists, forgetting the aches throughout his body, and remembering the mission. Boots jumped onto the truck's floor. "You all are gonna be sorry," Lyle said, and felt two hands pull him forward by the leg. Lyle started screaming and swearing harsh, and was thrown out of the truck and onto the warm dirt below. The same hands grabbed his shoulders and lifted him up, until he punched the air for a jaw. Struck someone and he yelped. "Attack!" A blind fool, blinded by visions of immortality, Lye threw punches left and right, missing and missing each shot with a grunt of exhaustion. Then he dropped to his knees, gasping for poor breath, yet still reacting violently with random, paranoid punches. "Attack 'em..." He wasn't prepared for any of this. Without warning, the burlap sack was yanked off his face. A man on his bended knees, Lyle found himself in the middle of the backwoods, lost in the country. Trees surrounded the patch of road he was on until a break in the path, a sort of field covered in high grass and small huts, a city of poverty. Among the high grass worked dozens of skeletons in rags, laboring painfully in the field crops. A good number of them wore green military clothing, torn and ripped by toil and sweat. Guards lined the road with large rifles. Lyle's frightened eyes darted to the back of the delivery truck. The guards were pulling people out. Derek had lied, they hadn't been alone in there. Looked around and saw Derek, face covered in a bag, being removed from the truck. He had never attacked, a double liar. Too exhausted, Lyle's eyes fell back on the field of crops and huts. The middle of the woods, and a cloud of unknown surrounded him. He found it hard to breathe. The skeletons were looking at him. "No!" "Oh, oh damn, believe it, kid!" It was one of the guards. He wore boots and a uniform like the others, yet the fat revolver at his hip was most recognizable. Blaine, the deputy guard, stood firm in front of him with his chest puffed out, eager for a brawl. A wicked smile and dark joy dancing in his eyes, Blaine looked to his fellow men and pointed to Lyle with his extended baton. "That kid, that kid is a killer!" "We string him up next?" said a guard. "He is evil," Blaine spat. "Goddam, evil and mad. And we ought to string him up." "I'll get the other rope." "No, the bringer of dawn has shown us the way. A way of better judgement. He's weak and broken, but he'll be made strong soon. He'll last us longer than the others, say. That's what we want." "No rope?" "We've had enough broken necks today. No rope." "No rope." Lyle looked past the men and weapons, eyes fixed on the skeletons. It had come to him with a sour taste on his tongue, a feeling of tears choked up in his throat, wanting to grovel, wanting to sob. He saw the skeletons, some with shovels and others with pickaxes, and he came to realize that it was a long farm, a plantation of slaves. A pain tightened in his chest then, and a crow cawed overhead. The guards had begun to move the prisoners towards the slave farm. Lyle couldn't tell who from who, but he could tell that the prisoners were the soldiers and police officers from the high school, and among them, for sure, was his best of friends. The line of guards and prisoners shuffled towards the compound. "Nolan, attack 'em!" He croaked. "Go pray," said Blaine. "Pray for your soul." "My soul?" "Pray and admit defeat, for you have lost." Lyle was silent, bloodied knees deep in the road. "I don't want to see you like this," Blaine spoke gently, and he was the only guard left at his side. "Pains a healthy man to see a broken, dirtied man." "I'm dirty and got blood on me. Blood on my hands." "We forgive, Lyle, ain't you see? The bringer of dawn is the flower, the prophecy of man reborn, now awakened. And you can help us." "I'm hungry, please, oh God, I'm sorry hungry..." Blaine knelt in front of him. A tear rolled out Lyle's eye and Blaine wiped it away. "The bringer of dawn will grant you warmness," he said. "Warmness, a full belly. Water to wet your mouth with, Lyle. You'll be a good worker. A good worker. You'll help us forge the new order, one of mountains of gold." "The dead are walking and I'm hallucinating." "No," said Blaine. "Man, no. We were chasing you because we love you. We love all you people. We want the best for everyone in these dark times, times darker now with the disease. But don't get me wrong, Lyle." "About what?" "Rockefeller loves you. He loves you because of what you did for us, and you will help us labor in the new order." "Those are skeletons over there." "Hundreds of people work on that farm. A couple don't get enough food as the others, yet each gets equal treatment under the cause, the new order." "The new order?" "You're hungry, Lyle. You were afraid when you resisted us, but that was your fear of the unknown. We trust you, and you trust us." "I was afraid." "Hope, trust in the cause," Blaine spoke so gently. "And now you will witness the flames of change and revolution, furiously rage through the land." "What?" "A new dawn, man. A new dawn." He locked eyes with Lyle. "You're free in our hands, my man. There is no betrayal, no blemish of happiness, and no imperfection in the new order. Only love, a love from Rockefeller. Your friend." "My friend." "We were only looking out for you." A tear welled in Lyle's eye. "I'm just so scared of dying." "We'll make you well." "And Nolan?" "And Nolan." "Everybody." "Every one will see fairness under the bringer of dawn." "So hungry and thirsty." "You have a home now, friend." Another tear fell down Lyle's cheek and he crumbled over. Blaine caught him in his chest, wrapped his arms around him, and let the poor man cry. ---- =Issues= Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues